


Webs and Insects

by DeathsLights



Series: Redemptionis of the Infernus [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, BAMF John, Gen, Just done, Kidnapping, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Worries, Mycroft-centric, Pre-Slash, Slow build Johnlock, Time Skips, abandoned buildings, but really he's done with these two, he really does, hidden agendas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathsLights/pseuds/DeathsLights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But all things so precariously built must fall apart and shatter and if he has to tip it then so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Webs and Insects

**Author's Note:**

> I know I posted this before but it went through major editing and change so here it is again. This is betaed by writeswithfeatherquills thank you for offering your help and I'm looking for someone to share her burden because I'm a fucking mess majority of the time.
> 
> I'm in the market for a new beta if you will be so kind to offer I would be most grateful.

**Webs and Insects**  

 _Drip, drip, drip, drip_ from the iron rusted pipes the water drops and combines to form a steadily growing puddle of water near his feet on the grey industrial floor. Well, it’s more of a oil spill in the minimum lighting. From four corners there is nothing but the bleak and morbid colour of old, crack ridden concrete that from the looks of it would flick right off if he slid his finger down the wall.  The ceiling above him is bare so the plumbing and pipes are seen. There are no windows and he is firmly sure that the abandoned building he has been... _forcible_ made to enter was chosen precisely to get the lighting to be the right amount of menacing and foreboding in atmosphere. Bloody Holmes’s and their constant need for dramatics, it was one thing for Sherlock to do with it his coat, his cheekbones, and his stupid scarf, but really now, did his brother _really_ need to continuously kidnap him off the street and then take him to unknown locations? He wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow had a wager to one up the other in the mysterious show offs and displays. Honestly some days he didn't know which Holmes he hated more, the one off his rocker or the one who liked to use his position to keep an eye on things and essentially misuse his power quite grossly. Apparently, neither Holmes recognized the fact he did have a life, a job, and things to do that did not involve either of them. One would think they had somehow gotten the notion stuck in their bloated heads that everyone and the world in it catered to them and their whims, arrogant sods with a repulsing amount of self-importance.

There is a rhythmical and metrical tap that echoes and draws him from his musing, and would you look at that, from the shadows emerges the oldest Holmes. Somehow managing to seem like the abandoned buildings are places he frequented with comfort. His dark grey three-piece suit primly and stiffly made of a no doubt expensive fabric that he most likely cannot pronounce and doesn’t even know the name of, his hair is styled into a neat arrangement of ginger brown each strand orderly stationed. Mycroft pauses, taps his umbrella in front of him, and nods.

 “John a pleasure to see you again, it has been awhile hasn’t it?” he says pleasantly as if the whole arrangement was normal and they had both accepted the regularity of the situation, which he once again had no say in. Another thing both brothers have in common, was it a genetic disease with these two? A mutation?

John smiles tightly, unfriendly and unwelcoming. “Well I didn’t have much of choice did I?” he says with a politeness that is more biting than anything else really.  Mycroft ignores him, which is not too much of a surprise because really neither of these brothers has much in the way of manners or respect for others or laws. There must definitely be something wrong at the genetic level with these two or some gene to create two of the most invasive and bloody annoying gits in the world that he’s come to be acquainted with.

“Would you care for some tea?” Mycroft questions with a straight face.

He has to pause for a second, off guard and unsure of what to make out of the context. “...I’m sorry did you ask me for tea?” he repeats just to be sure he heard correctly.  

The older man merely turns his head a fraction and then suddenly behind him the area lights, there is a medium sized elegant table equipped with chairs, two cups, a teapot, cutlery, and a dessert tray piled high with sweets and scones. Mycroft taps his umbrella and turns swiftly walking to the table; he stands by the side and turns to look back at John, his fine eyebrow raises.

“Shall we?” He beckons.

“I’d rather not, actually. If you would get to the p‒”

“John you have just gotten off of a one of my brother’s...” Mycroft moves his mouth in distaste, “ _cases_  and I am well aware that he refuses to eat or sleep and lets you do neither and if he does it is the bare minimum. You must be hungry, so please eat your fill and then we will talk.” Mycroft begins to pour the steaming tea into the cups. “A bit of cream right that is how you take your tea when you are tried?” It’s not a question, it’s a show of how much and how easily Mycroft can gather information even something so unimportant.

But frankly he is drained, his body is sore and his leg has been acting up again. He wants to say no and just walk out and tell Mycroft to bugger off but he doesn’t. He can’t, he doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight after running around London trying to make sure no one shot Sherlock, again, or Sherlock didn’t get his face pounded in because everything that came out of his mouth was offensive and cutting. He sighs and grudgingly takes a seat and wraps his fingers around the cup. He inhales the delightful aroma; it has been awhile since he had a good cup of tea. In fact, Mrs. Hudson has most likely dumped the last one after Sherlock decided that the time to go crime solving through the streets of London was the only time he had wanted tea. Inconsiderate little shit he is sometimes...majority of the times.  _All the time_. Tea. Yes, tea will do him good. He lets the warm liquid travel down his throat, filters through his chest, and warms his sore and aching body. A little bit of tension lifts from his shoulders and he closes his eyes savoring it.  

Mycroft sits down as well and sips slowly from his cup, his eyes accessing, boring, and calculating. “John do try to the jam, I know how fond of it you are and with your cohabitation with Sherlock how rarely you get it. I ordered it just for you.” He nods to the jar, a beautiful one crafted at that. “I hope it suits your taste.” 

Sometimes he wants to snort at the fanciness and posh manner both the brother's seem to parade around like preening birds. 

“Thank you,” John says and brings the jar closer to him, there is catch coming and he is well aware of that but he should at least get that much after dealing with both the younger brother and the older one in the same day. He deserves a lot more in truth, but the jam and uninterrupted meal will do. John spreads the jam plentifully and unrestrained over his scone with his knife and takes a bite. Instantly his mouth fills with a delicious sweetness and tartness that has him speechless and happy. He finishes his first one in quick bites and takes a second adding a bit more jam to it. It is good jam; maybe he should ask Mycroft the brand so he can have it at hand? No, knowing Mycroft is it probably too ridiculously expensive to afford on his meager pay and no doubt imported from somewhere.

Mycroft wordlessly finishes his tea and pours himself another cup allowing John to eat his fill in sweets and jam. Once a sufficient amount of time has passed Mycroft sets his teacup on the saucer, settles back into his chair, his folds his hands in his lap, and waits. 

John sighed and nibbled on the last bit of scone trying to make the most of it. At least the tea and sweets were good, he was going to miss them and no doubt regret not leaving when he had the chance, probably regret ever getting involved with the two brother's. He finished his treat already longing for the peace and sanity and steeled himself.

“Why am I here?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for anything else? More tea? Perhaps another scone?” Mycroft asks politely out of courtesy and some sense of duty and drilled etiquette from his childhood that apparently Sherlock entirely ignored, dismissed or deleted. 

He would appreciate it any other day after spending so many months living with Sherlock but today he's a frayed rope hanging by just a thread and he doesn't want to play this game. Sometimes Sherlock's lack of tact, lack of decorum and direct and no doubt insensitive manner is welcomed and appreciated, today is one of those rare days. “No, thank you I have had plenty. I’d rather stop skirting around the issue and get to the point, please.” The words are blunt and straight to the point. 

If Mycroft is surprised by his lack of evasiveness and the straightforward manner of his words, he doesn't show it, not a twitch or a movement of his face. “Very well, moving on then," and sudden the air is heavier there is a tense and seriously note, the lazy and almost hospitable atmosphere is gone, erased and forgotten. Mycroft's face is stern and unmoving, frozen and expressionless as hard cold stone. It has John on guard and cautious as quick as wildfire. "Consider what I am to relay to you a word of advice.” The way the words hang between them suggests anything but advice; it’s more of a demand, decree, and a order all in one.

A deep crease appears above John’s brows and a frown tugs at his mouth. “Advice? What for?”  he questions carefully.

“The subject matter you are well aware of, I’m sure entails my brother,” Mycroft replies primly. Instantly John’s face closes off; wrinkles appear in the corner of his eyes and there is tautness in his face.

“What about him?” He can't decipher the unmovable mask Mycroft dons. Where Sherlock has an almost childlike tendency to display his anger, disgust, joy, boredom or repulsiveness Mycroft is the opposite. He seals it away, so deeply that it is impossible to have a glimpse or a peek of any thought or expression. It is one of the most frustrating things with all the interactions he has with the older Holmes, he is never sure of what goes on in his mind or what he feels at any given moment and it is maddening to even try to figure it out. 

Mycroft takes his time delicately choosing the words with precision and care. “My brother is very... _different,_ and not in a good manner the majority of the time and it is not quirkiness or eccentricity, there is something very wrong with him, John. He lacks something.” 

“What are you trying to say?” There is a under note of stiffness and protectiveness, something that still manages to bring a bit of surprise, people don’t feel that way about Sherlock, very few in fact, he could name them all on one hand and even then John was unique. Outward his face is impassive and almost bored.   

“Most consider him to be a monster," he tosses easily without a care.   

There is spark of anger that flicker's deep in his chest, John tightness his grip on his hand rests and says nothing. Mycroft proceeds watching the former solider closely.

"A freak, abnormal, psychopath, mentally unstable, a deviant, manipulator, heartless, inhuman take your pick there are many names." John grits his teeth.

 "Sherlock is none of those,” he asserts vehemently.

The smile is cold and doesn't fit on Mycroft's still face, it is out of place. 

“You say that now, but will you always when you see something darker in him? When you see something that will go against your morality and ethics that my brother so carelessly oversteps and ignores?” 

There is dark truth in Mycroft's words and the meaning underneath them. It's there but he refuses to acknowledge it, ignores it and plays dumb. He trusts Sherlock. He has to. 

“Sherlock isn’t a monster, he’s not a saint either, he is an arrogant, pompous, selfish twat and a nightmare of a roommate but he isn’t a monster.”The smile turns even more frigid and icy. 

“You say that because you are charmed by my brother and what he does to your mundane and bleak life. You are charmed by the danger, by what Sherlock can give you that you have craved since the war.”He has to the snort at that, Sherlock and charming?

“Oh please, I’m not charmed—that wore of the second he stopped pretending and became Sherlock.” Nevertheless, there isn't a lie in Mycroft's words either. But he trusts Sherlock. He doesn't doubt the man that Sherlock is despite the loose morals he has. Sherlock is more human than most people he has met. That he has had to kill. That he has to serve and protect. He is one of the very few real people he has met in a very long time.

John stares down at his empty teacup. His mind drifts, the howling wind and gunshots echo in his mind ingrained against the walls of his skull. There are pleas and prayers so sincere and that will not be answered, blood splatters and pours. Everyone bathed in it and painted by it, the gruesome stench of burned and rotting flesh. The faces of inhuman and cruel monsters that do not care of the people they kill, of the countless innocent bystanders that they leave lying in rubble or dead on the street. Sometimes the faces morph and it is his own comrades who are the ones that make those decisions that claw and tear the insides of the bone of skull. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but firm and solid.

“Mycroft, I have  _seen_ monsters, I have faced monsters and Sherlock is not one of them. Sherlock will never be one of them." He is so sure of it, as if it is a fact unchangeable and so true that it cannot be refuted or denied just as the presence of the sky cannot be or the air. Such unshakeable and unbreakable faith this one man has in his brother. Mycroft stares at the doctor, his face inexpressive and unreadable.

“I have no doubt you have faced monsters on the battlefield but Sherlock is something different isn’t he?” 

“Yes, bu‒” 

The older Holmes continues unmindful of the interruption, “Which is precisely why he is much more dangerous.” 

John clenches his teeth. He is done. He doesn't have the patience to deal with Mycroft and watch him piss all over Sherlock. John gets up so quickly that everything rattles and precariously shakes on the table.

“Well then I’ll be leaving, thank you for the tea but please let us not make it a regular occurrence,” he grits out tightly with a barely controlled wrath and fury.

“I am not done speaking John, sit down.” It’s a command that John ignores.

“Oh, but I’m done listening though so if you’ll excuse me.” John moves to leave and disregards the threatening tone.

Mycroft narrows his eyes dangerously. “ _Sit. Down._ ” 

There is a moment of silence where neither party diverts his gaze. A flicker of tension sparks between them and John’s nostrils flare and he drops down heavily and glares menacingly. There is a deadly frustration blooming and fracturing in his chest. Mycroft pours more tea into the cups; John leaves his untouched letting it cool while Mycroft leisurely sips.  

Mycroft begins once more. “My brother will never tell you this so I will, I do not want you to stay unaware more so when it seems you will not be moving anytime soon. My brother does not have a ariolus and you are aware of what is associated with that. If you have once doubted for a moment my brother was not a sociopath you are utterly and completely wrong, blind and misguided.”  Mycroft’s gaze sharpens the blue edging into a steel cold grey. “My brother is an infernus.”

John crosses his arms over his chest.

“So?” Mycroft’s immaculate eyebrow arches at that. “Is this supposed to scare me? Make me hate Sherlock? Make me fear him? What?”  Of course, the doctor is full of surprises he had to be in order to deal with Sherlock or in the matter keep Sherlock entertained and somewhat obedient. 

“Nothing of the sort. In contrast if you stayed I’d be grateful but at the same time I find it exceedingly unfair and morally wrong for you to be uninformed of everything. When my brother forms an attachment to something he gets... _possessive_ , similar to a child that will not let anyone else have his toy but it is much more darker and sinister you must understand my‒” 

“Wait, wait, wait! You don’t think‒Oh my God, you‒” Incredulity courses through him, there is no way Mycroft thinks that...a groan of complete mortification and humiliation drags its way out of his chest.

“Bloody Hell!  You can’t be serious!” John frantically leans closer to Mycroft tightly gripping the sides of the table. “Sherlock and I aren’t together! We have never been together! There is no together, trust me on that. Look Sherlock and I are just friends, we don’t‒I can’t even finish this sentence. Are you utterly mad?” 

“John do not misunderstand me, what label you give your relationship is of no importance to me‒” Mycroft supplies calmly.

“No! There are no labels whatsoever!” He wants to rip the hair right of his skull in frustration. Why is this even a conversation he needs to have? With Mycroft? With _anyone_?! 

Mycroft continues, “But I would merely like for you to be entirely informed and if at any point you find yourself overwhelmed I will always offer you a hand. But John I want you to understand that if Sherlock forms an attachment to you it will become increasingly difficult for me to help, so the sooner the better. If you have any doubts about living with my brother, with dealing with his absurd demands and troublesome nature I would like to offer you my assistance. I can have a nice apartment and job setup for you instantly so if you find yourself ever needing one do get in touch.” 

“Thank you but really I don’t need it and Sherlock and I aren’t in a relationship, we’ve never been in one and we never will be so you don’t have to worry about Sherlock ever getting attached to me. Really you don’t need to worry about that at all,” John insisted adamantly.   

“Very well whatever you deem the best I will respect your wishes.” Mycroft set down his cup with a click. “But in all seriousness, the ariolus business you understand my reluctance in leaving you unaware?” 

“I understand but this will not change the way I see Sherlock or how I deal with him.” John paused. He can’t get his tongue to work to further. Not on this. He can never get it to. He swallows wetly his tongue hanging uselessly in his mouth. "I‒" 

“I know,” Mycroft says softly taking the burden of speech and truth off of John. For once he is glad Mycroft oversteps the bounds of confidentiality and privacy.  

“Then you understand my reason for not judging or caring about that. Sherlock is good man even without a ariolus, misguided, lonely, perhaps but despite it all he is a good man,” John states resolutely with a firm strength. How easily this man seems to understand Sherlock.

_How foolish and stupid._

John sees only what Sherlock allows him to see, so he will stay.

So easily manipulated he is, but one day Sherlock would slip up and reveal, say or doing something and in it would destroy the little word he has so meticulously and unknowing built and unconsciously protected.

And in that moment he would teach Sherlock an unforgettable and harsh lesson that has eluded him for far too long. John would be the perfect instrument at that moment. However, in honesty it would be better if the day never came for either of them. But all things so precariously built must fall apart and shatter and if he has to tip it then so be it. He has done his part and warned him of the coming future if to somehow payback the debt he is come to establish with John; even in the other party is unaware. If he were, a lesser man perhaps there would be a sting of guilt or shame for what he has planned but there nothing but a little pity and it isn’t for his brother for once.

The things he must do for Sherlock. 

Mycroft moves to stand and John follows the movement getting up as well, both of them walk to the exit side by side until they reach the outside. A breeze starts to stir and the clouds are dark and ominously filled with moisture that seems ready to pour and drip. Seconds later a sleek black car pulls up in front of them and before he has the chance to get in Mycroft grabs his hand and squeezes it gently. 

“I want to thank you for taking care of my brother it relieves a great deal of stress and I know it not easy to live with a tyrant like Sherlock I am truly grateful for your presence in my brother’s life.” Mycroft squeezes his hand once more and lets go as he takes a step back. “Take care of yourself, John. My men will drop off where you wish to go.” 

John grins. “As a favor can we skip the meeting in abandon buildings?”  

Mycroft smiles a little. “Of course.” 

Well if Mycroft was going actually listen for once...“And the pulling up on the curve and picking me up borderline kidnapping situation?” he tries.

“Goodbye, John.” Mycroft dismisses him easily. 

Of course, he rolls his eyes he had forgotten how willful and prone to being mysterious both of them are. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”  

Mycroft watches the car pull away and taps his umbrella against the pavement. What would the future entail? Well whatever it would hold he had done his part to warn the doctor but the mess and disaster that will inevitably happen will not be on his conscience, no matter of how little conscience he has. Oh God, he hoped London wouldn’t bare the wrath of it, it was one thing when Sherlock was gallivanting around like a little miscreant crime solver but it would be another if he did it while infatuated. A chill wracked his body the horror, the untold horror. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache, oh dear this was going to be a testing situation. 

He sighed deeply.

At least his brother had managed to find someone, whether he kept him would be a different matter but truly he was grateful to John for saving his brother from his lonely world and many other things he could not tell him just yet, but one day he would. But merely, simply, and purely Mycroft hopes his brother will not destroy the trust and faith this man has, it will be a terrible thing to see Doctor John Watson to be proven wrong.

It is salvation John Watson so desperately seeks but is it salvation where Sherlock will lead? What John has failed to see is the chasm that Sherlock has always been on the edge of threatening to fall, a sinister and vile abyss. And in recent times the worse it has become because if Sherlock falls, it will no longer be just himself he will take down anymore, he will drag down John Watson with him to his Hell and there will be no coming back.

He idly considers if his brother truly understands the importance of this man? Of what place John Watson has made for himself, which Sherlock has allowed to be forged. How pitiful it will be if he doesn't until it is too late. His brother has proven to be blind to some of the things that stand before him. His thoughts start to stray and uncoil leaving his musings to a corner in his mind.  

Sometimes the image of a wounded winged insect caught in a web will not leave him when he gazes at two them, absent and distracted. The web serves no purpose if there is nothing captured and ensnared in it, yet the insect is better off without it, safe, free, and happy. But the web is left waiting until it is inevitably destroyed, desolate and obsolete without the insect. One only exists if the other does, has a purpose, has meaning.

 _But who is the insect?_   

Mycroft rises his eyes to the skyline watching the gathering and pregnant clouds. A very heavy downpour was to come it seemed.  

**Author's Note:**

> This series is an experimentation for me and my writing I hope you enjoy it and if not please do give me criticism. Thank you for reading. : )
> 
> Translation from Latin to English:
> 
> Ariolus= seer or diviner  
> Infernus= the damned


End file.
